


Who We Were & Are

by ama



Category: Band of Brothers, The Pacific - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol, Crossover, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Medical Procedures, Military Backstory, Minor Violence, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 18:46:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2161170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/ama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gene Roe and Merriell Shelton always had a complicated relationship--in that respect, the war changed nothing. In other ways, it changed everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who We Were & Are

One of the strangest things about being home, Gene thought, was being reminded of things. Things that had been part of his life for as long as he could remember, that his mind had simply set aside during the war because it was no longer important—things like electricity bills, orange juice, and Merriell Shelton.

He had known Merriell Shelton since he was a kid, of course, because the Cajun population of St. Francisville was rather small. Everybody knew everybody. They had never been friends, though. Neither of them had many friends at all really, Gene because he was shy and because he was raised by his grandmother (“that old Cajun witch” as most of the town called her), and Shelton because—well, because he was too good at pissing people off. There was something surreal to Gene about sitting in a bar in St. Francisville, having survived Toccoa and Normandy and Bastogne, and watching Shelton piss people off.

“You shut your mouth, boy,” Roger Curtis growled. His face was a dull, splotchy red from some combination of anger and alcohol—more the former than the latter Gene guessed, because he hadn’t been in the bar for more than twenty minutes, whereas Shelton had been there since before Gene arrived.

“It’s zero, ain’t it?” Shelton said smugly. “You never killed nobody, Curtis. That’s what the fucking Army does, it shows up late so a bunch of pansy-ass janitors can clean up our hard work. Now me, I killed…” He pretended to count on his fingers. Or perhaps (judging by the serious look on his face) he really _was_ counting. It was hard to tell with Shelton some times. Finally he just flapped his hand. “Lots of people.”

Slowly, Gene set his beer down and glanced around the room. There were only half a dozen other people in the bar, and most of them were hardly paying attention. He could do the same—turn away from the scene in front of him, turn back to his beer, and pretend that none of this was happening. He wasn’t friends with Shelton and he had spoken to Curtis no more than twice in his life. This was not his responsibility.

“Lots of Japs, you mean,” Curtis sneered. “Hardly counts.”

“Shit, I met lady Japs who scared me worse than you,” Shelton laughed, and that was when Curtis and Gene both stood up, Curtis to advance on Shelton and Gene to head him off.

“Okay, okay, that’s enough. You’ve both got in your shots—let’s all just take a seat and calm down, huh?” he suggested in his best medic voice—understanding but firm. “Curtis, let me buy you the next round, all right?”

“Roe, buy me a beer,” Shelton said, tugging on his arm.

“You’ve had enough,” Gene said curtly. Shelton looked offended.

“T’en case-toi!” he slurred as he too made it to his feet.

“Sit down, private,” he barked.

“I—am—a— _corporal_ ,” Shelton snapped, and Gene had to struggle to keep from rolling his eyes.

“Mais, _corporal_ , tu es le couyon either way. Sit down.”

“Oh, I get it,” he said, his face clearing. “You’re an Army boy too, huh Roe?”

“You say another word—” Curtis began hotly.

If Gene had been thinking entirely straight, he probably would have kept his damn mouth shut, but the beer warming his veins made him snippy, and that blasted Screaming Eagle pride welled up in him.

“I was a paratrooper,” he said coldly.

“Paratrooper? That ain’t half bad,” Shelton said approvingly, but then his voice became an ugly snarl. “Better than some washout dogface _draftee_ —”

Gene was facing Shelton, and before he knew what was happening he was knocked on his back. He scrambled to his feet quickly, just in time to see Curtis slamming Shelton’s face against the bar. Some of the other patrons began to holler encouragement while the bartender began to holler _disc_ ouragement, but neither of the brawlers seemed to notice. Shelton bared his teeth in a crimson grin, elbowed Curtis in the gut, and managed to squirm around enough to smash the heel of his palm into his face. Curtis howled as blood poured from his nose, and Gene knew instantly that it was broken.

In his mind, he went through a steady stream of curses couched in a Philly accent (swearing always felt more satisfying in Bill Guarnere’s voice), and he rushed forward, shoving his hands between them.

“That’s _enough_ ,” he shouted in a voice that had once made his superior officers quake. “Curtis, you stop this now. Shelton—”

With great effort, he managed to shove the two apart. Shelton tried to wrestle past him, snarling, and then Gene looked over his shoulder and his blood ran cold as Curtis drew a knife from his belt—standard issues M1 bayonet blade, ten inches long and incredibly sharp.

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” Shelton swore.

One arm rose to protect himself as he dove to the side—there was a splatter of blood—the volume level in the bar seemed to have doubled. Then Gene made eye contact with Shelton for a split second and nodded, and together they rushed at Curtis. Gene wrested the knife from his grip and turned to the other patrons at the bar, shouting “ _Help us!_ ” as Shelton knocked Curtis to the floor.

His fist drew back to hit him again, but Gene grabbed his wrist and _yanked_ , pulling him to his feet. The other inhabitants of the bar had finally interceded, holding Curtis down as he shouted obscenities, and Gene resolutely dragged a struggling Shelton to the side door.

“Fuck you, Roe, _fuck you_ , let me go—”

“You wanna be here when the cops show?” Gene hissed in his ear. “Cuz I don’t.”

At that, Shelton fell silent. Like a sulky child, he allowed himself to be led out into the hot Louisiana night.

“What the hell did you have to do that for?” Gene demanded as he marched Shelton down the street.

“Me? Hey, I’m not the one walking around with a knife sticking down my pants.”

“No, you’re just the one going around picking fights with other soldiers.”

“I’m not a soldier,” Shelton said instantly. “I’m—”

“A goddamn marine, Jesus, I get it.” Gene raised his eyes to the sky. “Lord, grant me the patience to deal with this shit. All I wanted to do tonight was get drunk, you know that? And now I gotta deal with your attitude.”

“Then quit your preaching and let me go.”

Gene sighed and glanced at Shelton’s arm. It was still bleeding pretty heavily, although Shelton’s hand was clasped firmly over the wound. It needed stitches, and his house—with a fully stocked med kit—was just down the street.

“I’m going to fix you up first. Besides, if I let you go now I know you’d find some way to antagonize Curtis again and I don’t want a death on my conscience—his or yours. Now will you stop dragging your damn feet?”

Shelton glared at him, but for the rest of the walk he was silent. The mosquitos buzzed around their heads and moths around the porch light as Gene unlocked his front door and led Shelton inside. It was a small house, the one he had bought when he was eighteen, just after his grandmother died. There were two bedrooms, a bathroom, and then one large room sectioned off into a kitchen and a living room. Gene spared a minute to be embarrassed by the mess—there was dust on the windows and mud tracked into the living room and a stack of newspapers on one of the kitchen chairs—but Shelton didn’t seem to notice.

“Take a seat over here,” Gene said, pointing towards the kitchen table. “That arm’s going to need stitches. And press that hard on there,” he added, tossing a hand towel to Shelton as he sat down.

“Co faire?” Shelton asked lazily, digging a cigarette out of his pocket.

“Because pressure makes the blood flow slow down.”

“No, I mean why you bothering, Roe?” Shelton asked as he lit his cigarette. It dangled between his lips easily, like it was part of him, and (absently, absurdly) Gene thought of Luz, who has the same easy confidence in his movements. “We both know you hate me. Always have.”

“That ain’t true,” Gene said automatically.

“Sure it is. Ever since we were kids. I knew, too. I’d come in to see your maw maw, get my bones fixed, get a nice prayer or two said over me, and there you’d be, standing over her shoulder and glaring at me, ’cuz I was just some beat-up low-class bayou rat.” There was an ugly sneer on Shelton’s face and then he turned his head and spit on the floor. His spittle was tinged pink with blood. “As if you were any better than I was. Shit.”

Gene had half a mind to walk out, but he took a deep breath and ran through the prayer to Saint Francis in his mind. His grandmother was always patient with Shelton, somehow, and the man’s a vet, the same as him. That deserved a few minutes, right? He could give him that. He stepped closer and sat in the rickety chair, a wet cloth in one hand and a needle in the other. Carefully, he wiped blood away from the gash on Shelton’s arm.

“I hated you ’cuz you used to steal from her. We were _barely_ scraping by, and she never charged you for nothing, but every time you left things would go missing. Food, things from around the house, money. Clean five dollars once, and she was only trying to help you. Now hold still while I stitch this up.”

But Shelton yanked his arm away.

“Then why’d she leave me there, huh?” he said, a snarl in his usual drawl. “If she wanted to help, why’d she let me go back?”

They sat in silence, staring at each other. Shelton’s eyes were narrowed, flickering incessantly over Gene’s face, searching for contempt or pity or something else, and blood dripped down from his arm. Gene stared back. He didn’t know what his own expression betrayed, but he thought that Shelton looked… unchanged. Not young, he had never looked young, but remarkably similar to the ten-year-old boy Gene used to know. War, which usually carved up a man’s heart, hollowed him out, had only taken the most prominent parts of who Shelton was and brought them to light, chipping away at everything else. The result was disconcerting, yes, but still familiar.

Everyone in town had known Merriell Shelton. They knew he was shrewd, tough, and wild. They knew he had cigarette burns on his forearms, and belt marks (the kind that leave no scars) on his back, and that his father was the meanest son of a bitch in town. Everybody knew it, including Gene and his grandmother, and nobody had done a damn thing.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “Maybe she was afraid. Maybe she didn’t know where else to put you, maybe she thought it wasn’t her place, maybe…” He sighed. “I don’t know, Shelton. Give me your arm.”

There was a moment when Shelton was still as a statue, even his eyes unseeing, and then he acquiesced and placed his arm on the table.

“What’re you going to do? Just shove a needle in there?” he asked in a quiet voice.

“Yeah. It’s a deep wound. Needs stitches or it won’t stop bleeding properly. You scared of a little needle like this?” he asked, waving it around. Shelton’s eyes traced it warily.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?”

“First of all, I’ve seen my grandmere stitch _only you_ up about two dozen times. Secondly, I was a medic. If I can keep a man alive after he’s had his goddamn leg blown off, I can fix up a tiny little bayonet wound like this. Now give me your arm and quit making a bahbin.”

Shelton eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then blew out a mouthful of smoke and put his arm down on the table. Gene leaned over and quietly began to stitch his arm. The tug and pull was soothing, in a way. One thing he had always liked about being a medic was the way it evened everything out. It didn’t matter if he knew the man well or not at all, if he liked him or disliked him. Everyone had a body and every body worked in similar ways. He knew how bodies worked, no matter how confusing or troubling the minds inhabiting them might be.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” Shelton said after a moment. He took his cigarette out of his mouth for a minute and rolled it around in his fingers. “I’m drunk.”

“Yeah, you are. It was fair, though.”

“Maybe.” There was another pause. “I liked your maw-maw. I went to her funeral.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yeah I did. I stood in the back so you couldn’t see me. Thought it’d be mean, since you don’t like me. I brought lilies. Trout lilies.”

Gene looked up, surprised, but Shelton wasn’t looking at him. He was just playing with his cigarette and staring off into the middle distance. Then he sighed and put his cigarette back in his mouth. He glanced up and met Gene’s gaze, looking puzzled; his hands had stilled in their task. Gene cleared his throat and tied off a knot.

“That was nice of you,” he said simply.

“They were ugly. They were just trout lilies.” A smirk spread across Shelton’s face and he leaned back. “So, you were a medic, huh?”

“Yeah.

“Fits. Guess that means you never killed no one, neither.”

“You wanna rile me up when I’ve got a needle in your arm?” Gene asked. To make a point, he yanked just a little too hard on the thread, and Shelton yelped.

“What the fuck you doing?”

“Oh hush, it ain’t that bad. Almost done. Leave ’em in for ten, eleven days and then you can remove ’em yourself—just make sure the light’s good, lift the knot, and snip. And don’t be drunk when you’re doing it.”

He tied off the last thread and snipped it carefully. Shelton waved in a vaguely thankful way, then snubbed his cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe and stood. He wobbled dangerously, and immediately Gene jumped up to steady him.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“Home.”

“Shelton, you drank too much and then you lost a lot of blood. You ain’t going nowhere.”

“No no, I’m going home. ’S fine, it’s not far.”

“Yeah? Where do you live?”

Shelton’s mouth opened a bit and he held up one finger. He considered it for a moment.

“I think—I think I take a left at the end of the street, and then another left, then two blocks down and a right. Maybe cut through old Barry’s yard.”

Gene scratched his forehead with a heavy sigh.

“If I let you go out there, you’re either going to end up shot or at the bottom of the bayou.”

“Oh come on, Roe, don’t go Burgie on me,” Shelton whined. “I’ve gotta walk three damn blocks. Shit, I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t—don’t _what_?”

“Burgie. Guy in my unit. He was always mother henning us, ’specially me—seemed to think I couldn’t walk five feet without getting lost.” The complaining note was still in his voice, but a grin was playing around his face. “He, uh, he used to call me Snafu. Him and the other guys. All ’cuz I got into a little bit of trouble in Melbourne. Not my fault. I was drunk in Melbourne.”

“You’re drunk in St. Francisville, too,” Gene said, putting his hands on Shelton’s shoulders. Slowly and steadily he walked him into the living room—Shelton stumbled along obligingly—and then gave him a firm shove so he fell over on the couch.

“Ooooh, what’d you do that for?” Shelton whined. “I got the mal au couer, Gene.”

“Cahbin’s that way,” Gene said, gesturing towards the appropriate door. “Don’t vomit on my couch. Bonne nuit, Shelton.”

\---

Shelton didn’t stick around much the next morning. Gene offered him breakfast, but he only grimaced, mumbled a thank you, and slipped out the door. Gene was actually surprised at how cordial their conversation had been the night before; he couldn’t deny that his heart softened towards anyone who admired his grandmother, who had raised him since he was ten. And he could admit that, when Shelton wasn’t acting defensive, he could be almost amusing. Still, they didn’t speak—except for a brief hello when passing in the street or at the grocer’s—for almost two weeks.

It was at the end of a tiring day, and Gene was halfway through a book Perconte had recommended him when he heard a knock on the door. There was a feeling of uneasiness in his stomach right away, because he didn’t get many visitors, so he got to his feet with a sigh and answered the door. Shelton was standing there with a seabag in his hands.

“I got evicted on Tuesday,” he said simply. “And I ain’t got nowhere to stay.”

“No,” Gene said immediately. “No way— _no way_ I’m your only option.”

“It’s you or my daddy,” Shelton said with a lopsided grin. “And if I stay with my pa, I’m going to kill him, I promise you that. I’ve got real fucking good at killing people. Do you want that on your conscience, Roe, or do you want to let me in?”

“Where’d you stay last night?”

“At the church.”

For a moment they stared each other down. Surprisingly, Shelton was the one who looked away first.

“Sorry I thought you was stuck up when we were kids,” he mumbled. “You didn’t like me, and I guess I never liked you much neither. But—but I think you’re a good man, Eugene, and like I said, I got nowhere else to go.”

Gene pursed his lips and glanced over his shoulder. He wouldn’t call Shelton a friend, still, but his gaze rested on the empty living room—small and quickly getting dark, as the sun crept towards the horizon—and admitted to himself that he wouldn’t mind having some company. He hadn’t lived here very long before he decided to join the paratroopers, but even then he had started to feel a bit trapped, cooped up in a house with no one else around. And now… his phone rang more, and he got more letters, as various men from Easy made a determined effort to keep in touch. But it wasn’t the same. There were still long hours where the house was quiet, and it wouldn’t do to sit in silence for that long.

“Yeah, all right,” Gene sighed. “First things first, though,” he said, holding up a stern finger. “No bar fights. I’ve got ashtrays and you’re gonna use them. I ain’t your maid. Sometimes I have trouble sleeping, don’t worry about it. Stay out of my med kit unless you’re dying—as a matter of fact, why don’t you come to _me_ if you’re dying and I’ll deal with it then. Don’t read my letters. And get rid of your teeth.”

“My what?” Snafu asked innocently.

“Your _teeth_ , Shelton, your gold Jap teeth you’ve been telling everybody about since you got home.”

“Aw, come on, Gene,” Shelton whined. “I just need to hold on to ’em for a little while, ’til I find a guy willing to buy ’em. Won’t take long, and gold’s more than 30 bucks an ounce right now.”

“I don’t care. They’re not coming in here.”

“One week, that’s all I need—”

“ _No_ , Shelton,” Gene said firmly. He crossed his arms and fought off a shiver. It wasn’t all that cold out, being Louisiana in September, but he had a feeling like someone walking over his grave. “Listen, you hear about them camps Hitler set up for the Jews? You read about them in the paper? Well I _saw_ one. I was there and I had to treat people who’d been sent there—and one of the things the guards did, right when they arrived, was take everything gold they had. Watches, wedding rings, teeth. Jews or Japs, I don’t give a damn, those things are not coming in my house.”

Snafu eyed him for another moment and then sighed. He dug around in his bag for a moment and removed a small knapsack—there was a rattling sound when it moved, and Gene grimaced—and tossed it into the trash can by the side of the porch.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“What else you got? From over there.”

“Nothin’ else like that. Didn’t make off with a sword or even a bayonet,” he said, smirking. “Got a pistol, no ammo, a flag, that kinda thing.”

“All right then, come on in,” Gene said.

He stepped back from the door and led Shelton into the living room. There wasn’t much he hadn’t seen from the other night, but he gave him the rundown anyway—where the second bedroom was, how long it took for the stove to heat up, and what the phone number was. Shelton looked around and nodded with a grin on his face. In the past, Gene had disliked that kind of grin; he had always had a nasty suspicion that it was insincere, and foretold only danger to come. Now, though, Shelton met his gaze and he smiled hesitantly back.

“Oh, almost forgot,” Snafu said, rooting around in his bag. “I got you something to say thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it, Shelton. All I want is a little common courtesy, and half the utilities each month.”

“Yeah well you’re gonna get a little extra, too.” He straightened, looking proud of himself, and held out a chocolate bar. “Pour toi,” he said simply.

For a moment Gene was frozen. His fingers shook, and in the back of his head he heard the whistle of far-away artillery. Then he cleared his throat and reached out to accept the gift. He had always liked chocolate as a kid; his grandmother had teased him for it, and Shelton, who had been in and out of their home so often, would surely have heard her. This had nothing to do with the war.

 _But that’s not true_ , he thought as his fingers closed on the chocolate bar. The war had changed everything—it had changed him, it had changed Merriell Shelton, it had changed Roger Curtis and probably everyone else in St. Francisville. If it weren’t for that, they wouldn’t be standing here. Things had changed, and good or bad he would have to get used to it.

“Thanks, Snafu.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am not Cajun and my French is limited and European-French in origin, but imo Gene would definitely slip in and out of English and Cajun French when he had that option. All the vocab I used in this fic (except for "bonne nuit," good night, and "pour toi," for you) came from [this page](http://louisianacajunslang.com/language.html).
> 
> T’en case-toi! -- exclamation of anger (think "why you!")  
> mais -- well  
> tu es le couyon -- you're the idiot  
> co faire? -- why?  
> making a bahbin -- pouting  
> mal au couer -- stomachache, the need to vomit  
> cahbin -- bathroom


End file.
